


You Bastard, I'm Through

by ProspertheXVIII



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, BDSM, F/M, Kink, Sadism, Sylvia Plath - Freeform, daddy - Freeform, poem fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProspertheXVIII/pseuds/ProspertheXVIII
Summary: Every woman adores a fascist...Her heart thumped against her ribcage with inexplicable, unadulterated fear, and she couldn’t find the strength to recoil from the touch that she resented.“You know I only do this to you because I love you, Max.”





	You Bastard, I'm Through

**Author's Note:**

> This fic does contain some fairly graphic depictions of non-consensual BDSM, so be warned. 
> 
> Sort of strange AU thing in which Max is a woman and Vi is a man. I mostly wrote this to get it out of my system, as I'm currently having a bit of a moment with both Max and Sylvia Plath - I correlate the two in my head for some reason, probably because their accents - sorry, diction and elocution - are fairly similar. And somehow that became this. The characters are based very, very loosely on their true selves and this by no means reflects my opinions on Max, and definitely not on Violet. I've seen a lot of kink-based stuff with the two of them, but sort of wound up writing the antithesis of that with this weird 50 Shades-esque relationship dynamic (except with a sane protagonist.) Using Violet was more of a space-fill than anything else - I didn't want to simply have a nameless face involved in the whole thing. To reiterate this is 100% AU and barely linked to the canon in any way besides names and character appearances. 
> 
> Just don't ask. I don't get it either.

_Every woman adores a fascist,_  
_The boot in the face, the brute_  
_Brute heart of a brute like you._  
  
_A man in black with a Meinkampf look_  
_And a love of the rack and the screw_  
_And I said I do, I do..._  
_  
_ \- ‘Daddy’, Sylvia Plath

 

* * *

 

  
What had once made her feel more alive than anything else in the world now simply broke her.  
  
Silver hair wrapped around his hand in a silken rope, pulled taut from her scalp - the roots threatening to rip straight out. She bit her lip, stifling the strangled moan that arose in the back of her throat. Pain and pleasure had once collided for her in a glorious firework of pinks and reds. Now the colours had gone, and pain remained in its abstract form. And just as nature had intended, it _hurt_  like hell.  
  
She felt his knee press into her back harder, arching her spine to an agonising ‘s’. He clawed at her wrists - restraining her hands in a painful tangle an inch from fractured ulnas. She feared him more than she loved him. And that love had once been so overwhelming that she thought it might have stopped her heart. Not any more.  
  
She winced, pressing her face into the pillow to hide her grimace; to prevent him from seeing the pain her face was forcing her to express. She didn’t want to feel - she didn’t want to feel anything. Not until she had to. She’d wait until he left. Then she could wipe away the blood, ice the bruises. Then she could feel the pain and shed the tears as loudly as she needed, but until then she was his. And he didn’t like to see her suffer. For as much as he liked to make her suffer - he didn’t like to see it. Seeing it made it real, she supposed. If he saw the cracks in her psyche that appeared with every injury, then maybe she’d start to seem like a real person to him again.  
  
“Do you love me, princess?”

"Jason, please-"

He yanked her hair harder when her answer wasn’t what he wanted, pulling her head up from the pillow. She let out a long, wavering sigh - eyelids flickering as she fought back the mist of tears that sprung to her eyes. Voice breathy and barely-there, she forced a smile; the corner of her mouth twitching as blood dribbled down her chin from a split in her lip.

  
“I love you...” she choked out, scarcely able to speak. Instinctively, her hand twitched against the one restraining her - desperate to grab for her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, and a year ago that would have pooled every ounce of arousal in her body between her thighs. Now it just terrified her. He pulled back against her twice as hard, making her shudder - trying not to cry out. The noise that eventually escaped her was a strangled gargle, and he grabbed her thumb and twisted it by means of punishment for daring to let a hint of a noise squeak through.

  
“I don’t believe you.”

  
“I-I love you...” She barely managed to eke this out through her swollen lips. She felt daggers to her chest - no air left in her lungs - the pain in her hand and her ribs and her scalp rising to the point of a horrifying climax. She ached for the days where agony used to be akin to an orgasm, and yet...No. Not at all. If she hadn’t been so stupid, she could have avoided this whole nasty mess altogether.  
  
Her eyes misted again - this time with a haze of black fog, as she verged on the threshold of unconsciousness. He let go of her hair. Her head dropped to the pillow, neck lolling limp as a ragdoll’s. Fighting for air, her chest heaved as the weight of the leg holding her down was removed, the claws still gouging into her radial arteries. He stroked her face, smearing the blood down her chin. She knew it was blood - she watched him wipe his hand clean on the sheets, leaving behind a trail of claret in his wake. He lowered his head to hers, whispering grotesque sweet nothings into her ear that fell short of her understanding - suddenly, she’d been rendered deaf, her world a blur of tinnitus. She shuddered. His free hand reached behind him, trailing his long nails down the alabaster flesh of her torso, stopping to scratch hard enough into one buttock that he drew blood. Yet more blood. That once-sexy stuff that she was beyond sick of seeing. The hand left her body - every muscle within her clenched, fearing what was to come next.  
  
The riding crop came down first on her back, between her shoulder blades, and then a second time on the muscled curve of her upper arm. She whimpered. He hushed her, tracing circles on her back with the cold leather - gentle, teasing - before he brought it down hard on her backside, hitting the fresh scratches and eliciting a wince. She resisted sobbing - a fresh wave of tears burning her scleras.

“Don’t you like this, princess? Tell me you like this.”

  
“Yes, sir...” The words were corrosive, bitter on her tongue. Like bile - almost as though to match the vomit she felt rise to the back of her throat.

  
“Well, act like it.” He hit her face this time - a harsh weal on her cheek. The pain was so intense it went numb before it hurt. She heaved. “I thought you’d have learnt how to behave by now.”  
  
She was scarcely responding by the time that he’d finished with her - letting the hurt wash over her in waves. As he scratched and bit at her, brought the crop down on her, degraded her...he’d be as well doing the same to a doll. He liked to get her to that stage. He seemed to prefer to have a latex mannequin sprawled across the mattress than he did the living woman that he possessed. And he was never satisfied until the fight had been literally beaten out of her.  
  
He turned her onto her back - grey hair in disarray around her as she breathed shallowly, eyes half-shut and jaw loose and aching. She felt the ache of his actions across every part of her being, her body pulsing. She hated it all - every little effect he’d had on her. The permanent swell beneath her eyes from the sleepless nights, the bruises that never seemed to fully fade, the aquiline jut of her twice-broken nose. She couldn’t stand him. She felt the soft feather-light touch of his black hair resting against the side of her face, and it made her twitch. How could she possibly resent so much what she had once loved so deeply? And as he leaned down to her, placing a soft, sucking kiss on her neck - lips resting on her jugular for a second or two, making her heart thump against her rib cage with inexplicable, unadulterated fear, she couldn’t find the strength to recoil from the touch that she resented.  
  
“You know I only do this to you because I love you, Max.”

* * *

  
She stared at her face in the bathroom mirror, eyes heavy. Her consciousness had returned to her again a quarter of an hour ago or so, and she guessed he’d left perhaps an hour before this. Of all of it that she hated, she hated the aftermath the most. Because it was in those moments where she was left alone to think on it, without the whisperings and the pet names, that it felt its realest for her. She didn’t like to admit it aloud, but after he left her, she always saw it for what it was. Simply routine domestic battery thinly-veiled under the guise of kink. Her masochism had been stretched to its limits and back over time, and it was a harsh realisation when it dawned on her that the fetish that was so much a part of her she felt her identity wouldn’t exist without it really wasn’t something she enjoyed any more at all. But she was his princess. And it wasn’t her place to disobey.  
  
Princess. The word felt like acid on her lips as she ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair, working through the knots with her nails. It disgusted her. She identified with it, she supposed - helpless damsel in her ivory tower, unable to escape; simply dreaming that one day things would get better. Though that was unlikely, when her captor masqueraded daily as the Prince Charming that was rescuing her from it all.  
  
Steam rose in ghostly clouds from the bath running behind her, illuminated lurid grey in the bright white lights of her bathroom. She’d lit candles, trying to fool herself into believing that this was normal - relaxing, that she was enjoying herself. A splatter of blood dried on the white marble of her countertop; stark and morbid. The bruises showed up such a bright, intractable purple on her pale skin - she hated that the most. One cheek was firm, starting to swell - the area of her mouth underneath it was raw and tasted of hot metal. Once upon a time she’d virtually begged him to leave marks on her - love-bites and scratches had over time become black eyes and bloody lips without her ever really consenting to it.  
  
She didn’t even know if he knew what he was doing. If he did, then maybe he wouldn’t just leave her to pick up the pieces every time. He used to - he’d stay with her and comfort her. He’d never leave her unsure of whether or not he loved her. He used to make her feel like a person. A far cry from leaving her sprawled and semi-conscious on the mattress - a toy that he’d grown bored of. It was when he stopped taking care of her that she’d started to realise that perhaps this was starting to transcend sadism and verge on actual abuse. But fool she was, she’d done nothing. She simply adapted to fit him.  
  
He had started to disregard their safewords, and so she had stopped using them. He had begun to ignore her entirely when the word ‘no’ left her lips, and so she didn’t protest any more. When she’d cried for the first time - genuine, gasping sobs, begging and writhing - he’d hit her out of genuine anger. Her nasal bone has splintered beneath his fist, and he walked out on her, leaving her dripping blood and tears into her lap. She’d been convinced that he wouldn’t come back after that, but he did. So now she didn’t cry. It was easier to let him to do what had to be done - smile through it, pert and pretty; speak when spoken to. And then deal with the aftermath alone.  
  
The chronic misery appeared now to almost be a part of her heart. She scarcely knew what she’d be without it. She’d once been so many things - an artist, a beauty, a dreamer, a person. She still created - she still had a life outside of this. But it cast a shadow, so black she could scarcely see. The marks and the scars she had once thought were exquisite, and in a way she still did. But she’d grown to hate them because of what they meant.

 

She seemed to have this endless habit of stringing herself along to one more day, one more week - putting off calling it quits. She could change her locks, block his number - sever the ties and then deal with the consequences later. If there were any consequences. If he couldn’t find her, then this couldn’t happen again. She could leave completely; disappear, pack up and move on. She’d done it before, she supposed. Not for any reason as insidious as this, but it was doable. Only thing was, every time she started to hatch the plan, he’d send her a message, and then she couldn’t bring herself to decline; jamming his foot in the door. _Think again_ , it seemed to say. _I’m not letting you away that easily._

The hold he had on her mind was twinned with the strength and force of the grip he had on her body. Whilst the physical brunt could split skin and break bone if it wanted to, the psychological grasp kept her pressed into one spot from miles away; she could only dare to dream of getting away. If she said no, tried to break it off, he’d simply choose to interpret it as all a part of the fantasy. She sighed. Staring at her face as it looked back at her from the glass, she then turned to investigate her nude back in the mirror’s reflection. Bruised and battered, as predicted - a map of the path his nails had taken down her body visible in scarlet trails that dried to ebon as the blood coagulated. Fantastic. That put backless dresses off the cards for yet another week, but at least it meant another week before this all happened again.

 

Eleven o’clock on a Saturday evening was when he came to her; inviting himself into her apartment and doing what he had to do. Usually she’d be awake again by five o’clock, and her sabbath would be rendered unusable as she lay recuperating. He used to spend that day with her, but now she wouldn’t see him again until the next week. But with the current sad state of affairs, that was just how she liked it. That way she could pity herself and cry out loud in peace.

 

She planned the parting words, turning them over and over in her mind as her lips twitched to half-mutter then beneath her breath. The tattooed X on her forearm was marred with the darkening mauve flourish of another bruise. Perhaps, she sometimes worried, she couldn’t bring herself to break away because somewhere within her subconscious, she still loved him - some kind of strange, screwed-up Electra complex. The thought made her grow pale. She shut her eyes for a moment, darkening her world as she banished the notion from her head. A wavering sigh was emitted from her lips as she crouched on the floor in her bare feet, ducking away from her own reflection and putting her head in her hands - fingers buried in her argentate hair. She didn’t want to feel this any more. Bury it, as usual. Take her bath, go to bed, relinquish it all for another week.

 

Maybe one day she’d find a way to banish the oppressive messiah from her life, but until then the weekly torture sessions would have to carry on. It was utilitarian at this point - she tolerated it because it was easier than calling quits. Sometimes she wondered how or indeed why her life had turned down this path, but nevertheless - there she was. No use dwelling.

 

She was through with it. If she had her way - if she could press a button and end it all, be that relationship or him, then she would without a second of thought. The bloom had come off of the rose months ago, but that didn’t seem to matter. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything about it. So she did what she always did. She receded into silence, and she tried to forget until the next time.

 

She wished she had the courage. She wished she could bring herself to actually say the words she had planned over and over in her head. But she didn’t. So she could do very little besides this - silently resent him in her bathroom in the middle of the night.

 

_Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I’m through..._


End file.
